


Outside Inside

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Prayer of the Children [10]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kid Fic, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 19:25:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11653131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Written for the 2017 John/Ronon thing-a-thon for the prompt: "kidfic (Ronon becomes a dad)". John and Ronon face their strangest alien trading ritual yet - parenthood. Featuring Pegasus Bambi and daddy!Evan Lorne (but not in the way you think).





	Outside Inside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/gifts).



“This isn’t the weirdest thing we’ve ever had to do for a trade agreement,” Rodney said.

John stared down at the baby in his arms. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.” Rodney beamed at the Toranian chief and clapped John on the shoulder with a certain level of patronizing that John thought was seriously unfair. “We would be glad to show our willingness to treat with your people by caring for two of your precious children for two weeks.”

“You only say that because Teyla’s on your team,” John protested.

Teyla was cradling her and Rodney’s charge, bouncing it and cooing at it, and it was giggling up at her. Torren was three now and ruled all of Atlantis. Marines who’d killed a dozen Wraith in one battle were his veritable slaves, doling out piggy back rides and games of tag like there was no tomorrow. All of the KP Marines knew how to make his favorite treats, Earth and Athosian alike. And he had Miko Kusanagi and half of the science department trained to produce “magic” (read: simple but flashy chemistry and physics experiments) on command.

Teyla was well-versed in raising a child. Rodney would just hang around and hold the kid once in a while. This next two weeks would be a breeze for them.

The Toranian Chief, a woman of indeterminate age with dark copper skin and bright blue eyes, bowed solemnly at the waist. “We hope to learn great things about our new potential allies.”

Caring for a child for two weeks wasn’t just a ritual - it was also a test. Great.

Ronon turned to John. “Let me hold him.”

John started to hold his child out - _Nemeth_ , the Chief had said his name was - but he hesitated. “Have you ever held a child before? I mean, besides Torren.”

Ronon just raised his eyebrows, and so John surrendered Nemeth and his bundle of homespun blankets, his heart beating rapidly all the while. Nemeth’s head fit in Ronon’s palm, the length of him less than Ronon’s arm. Ronon cradled Nemeth close, supporting his head properly, and rocked him.

The Chief smiled, pleased. “Welcome to Torania. We will show you to your quarters.”

“Quarters?” John echoed.

Teyla cast him a warning look. Then she smiled at the Chief. “We are grateful for your hospitality during this trial time.”

“But - Atlantis,” John protested. He followed the Chief and the rest of his team along the dirt path to the village, which was a cluster of huts. “We have to check in.”

“Major Lorne has already informed Mr. Woolsey that we will be here for two Toranian weeks,” Teyla said calmly. “Major Lorne will come for regular checkups.”

Lorne? The man was the king of Atlantis’s sub-rosa economy and gossip mill. He’d probably be taking all kinds of secret photos of John and Ronon and Rodney with baby puke on them to pass around to the Marines.

The Chief presented Teyla and Rodney with one hut and Ronon and John with another.

Their temporary home had only one bed. John stared at it, mildly horrified. No way would he and Ronon both fit on that thing. Although maybe he could jerry-rig it to fit two. Where was Nemeth supposed to sleep? He tapped his radio.

“Rodney, you wouldn’t happen to have the Toranian equivalent of a bassinet, would you?”

“Busy child-rearing here,” Rodney snapped. “And no. Figure it out.”

Ronon didn’t seem at all put off by their accommodations. John knew, intellectually, that this was the standard of living on Torania, which was a primitive planet that happened to be rich with the crystal substance used to make ZPMs, but how were they supposed to raise a child here?

In addition to the one bed, there was one low table - the Toranians sat on the ground, like the Japanese; John had been stationed in Japan and could handle that part - three cushions, and a single box.

Ronon calmly transferred Nemeth so the baby was facedown on his arm, head turned slightly so he could breathe. Ronon was literally holding the kid like he was a football. John started toward him, alarmed, but then he paused. Nemeth was sleeping peacefully, was breathing all right, and his head was being supported. Ronon was rocking Nemeth almost absently, humming under his breath, while he knelt and searched the box. He came up with several dishes, some utensils that looked like heavy-duty chopsticks, some cups and bowls, and a single knife.

The Toranians hadn’t required that any of the Atlantis delegation give up their weapons or supplies, so John had his knife and gun and tac vest.

“What now? How do we even feed a baby?” John asked. “I mean, we don’t have a bottle, and he doesn’t have any teeth.”

Ronon cast John a look. “On Earth, babies drink - what does Lorne call it - formula, right? We have something similar. We’ll need to go collect the flowers the nectar is drawn from. I saw some growing near here. And we’ll need to hunt.”

“Hunt?” John echoed.

“For our own dinner.” Ronon unfurled a length of cloth, studied it for a long moment, then proceeded to tie it into knots.

Hunting. John had never been much of the hunter type. Ronon obviously knew how to hunt, from his time as a Runner. “Okay. What is there we can hunt on this planet?”

Ronon drew the knotted cloth over his head and across his torso, fidgeted with it, and then placed Nemeth in it, knotted it some more. A baby sling. How did he know how to do that?

“Come on, I’ll show you. Bring your rifle - and one of those bowls, to collect the flowers.” Ronon ducked out of the hut, and John, P-90 in hand and set to semi-auto, followed.

He spotted Teyla and Rodney heading into the trees. Rodney was wearing a sling with his baby in it - a girl, Talith? - and protesting loudly as he tromped after Teyla, who was armed with a bow and arrow.

“Lower your voice, or you will wake her,” Teyla cautioned.

Ronon led John in a different direction, away from the Toranian village. He kept one hand on Nemeth’s back as he walked, stroking absently and humming under his breath. The first time he paused at the base of a tree and picked a vividly violet bloom - stem and leaves and all - John watched, but then he remembered they were being judged, and he moved to help.

Eventually the bowl was full of flowers, and John offered to take Nemeth back to the house and prepare the nectar (by crushing the flowers and then straining the mixture into another bowl) while Ronon hunted.

There was a baffling tangle of limbs and confusion as Ronon transferred the baby sling and the baby to John, and then Ronon set off with his blaster rifle. Ronon hadn’t set foot outside the door before Nemeth began to wail.

John set down the bowl of flowers hastily and began bouncing him, rubbing his back and trying to hum - the only tune he could summon on short notice was Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire - but Nemeth didn’t stop wailing. At all. John started walking, and bouncing him more. Finally he lifted the kid out of the sling and turned him around and sniffed him, but the kid didn’t have a wet diaper.

Wait. Diaper.

Did the kid even have a diaper? John only theoretically knew how to change a diaper, and that was the disposable kind.

A couple of Toranian women poked their heads into the hut, asked if John and Nemeth were all right.

“Just fine,” John said. “Excuse me.” And he skedaddled after Ronon, who’d just reached the edge of the village’s clearing.

Ronon turned to him. “What’s wrong?”

John unslung Nemeth and held him out. “He likes you better than me. I’ll go hunt us dinner.”

“Are you sure?” But Ronon holstered his blaster, transferred the sling to himself with one hand and accepted Nemeth with the other.

“Yeah. Teach me about the nectar later. He won’t stop crying, and everyone’s looking at me like I’m a child abuser,” John said in a low voice.

Ronon settled Nemeth into the sling. “Okay. You’re looking for a - what does Lorne call them? A Bambi.”

John blinked. “Bambi? Oh. Deer. Right. Okay. Got it.” He paused. “I didn’t bring my rifle.”

“Take my blaster. It’s set to stun. Cut its throat and drain it before you bring it back. Unless you want to cook the blood?”

John had been stationed in England once, and the notion of eating cooked blood was pretty awful. “No, but thanks. I’ll cut its throat and drain it.” He was sure he could figure that out. He’d seen movies with hunters. He reached out and carefully lifted Ronon’s blaster out of its holster, and he headed into the woods. Ronon headed back to the village, singing softly to Nemeth.

One of the anthropologists once told John that humans used to hunt by running prey down because they had primitive weapons. Humans, Dr. Raberba said, were more efficient runners than four-legged animals by far. A hunt took all day, but the hunters would chase the deer down over and over again till it finally gave up, exhausted, while the hunters still had energy. Then they could kill it and clean it and take it home.

John had the advantage of superior weapons, but he was an inferior hunter. He had no idea how Teyla or Ronon could see tracks from something as tiny-hoofed as a Pegasus deer. He spotted what he figured were piles of droppings, and he hoped those were from the deer, so he hunted around for more of them. Followed them.

Ronon’s description of the creature as a Bambi was accurate, because the deer didn’t look like the deer on Earth but like an actual cartoon deer, with huge eyes and an oversized head and very vivid colors in its pelt. The thing was kind of disturbing-looking, really.

It also ran like a cartoon. John could practically see speed marks behind it. He was twenty paces from it when it spotted him and took off. John took off after it.

Sure, he went running every morning. This was not the same, not the same at all. But he kept an eye on it, watched how it moved, how it jumped through bushes and over fallen trees. Eventually he lost sight of it, but he paused, checked the ground, and saw - hoofprints. Cloven hoof. Deep prints but tiny hooves. He went and checked a bush, saw where its branches were broken from where the deer had jumped over it.

He took off in the direction the deer had gone.

Sure enough, he came across the thing in another clearing. It was standing very still but trembling all over, its tongue lolling out, like a dog panting. As soon as it saw him, it ran.

John didn’t have a chance to get off a blaster shot, and he sprinted for as long as he could, then slowed to a jog, checking for hoof prints and broken branches. Yeah. He could totally do this whole hunting and tracking thing.

Dr. Raberba had been right. Several stops and starts later, John came across the deer in another clearing. It was lying on the ground, panting heavily. John only hesitated for a moment before he stunned it. Then he used some of the paracord from his tac vest to hang the thing from a nearby tree by the hooves.

He hesitated a good long time before he cut its throat with his knife.

He had to walk away from the smell while it drained.

As he walked, he searched around, checked for other types of droppings or tracks but saw none. After about half an hour, he went back, unfastened the knots and let the deer down. He wrapped up his cord and pocketed it, then picked up the deer and slung it across his shoulders.

The sun was low in the sky when John broke through the trees in another clearing, and he realized he had no idea where the village was. He’d chased the deer without even thinking about how to get home.

He tapped his radio.

“Rodney, Teyla, Ronon, what’s your twenty?”

“We are at home preparing dinner,” Teyla said. “Where are you?”

“I caught dinner,” John said, “but I kinda misplaced the way home.”

“Be right there,” Ronon said.

“I don’t even know where here is.”

“I can track you.”

John knew the smart thing to do was to stay put so Ronon could find him, so he set down the deer and sank down against a tree. “Sorry.”

“You caught a Bambi?” Ronon asked.

John couldn’t look at the thing’s big, bulbous, dead eyes. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Ronon appeared, Nemeth strapped to his chest, about ten minutes later. He stared down at the dead deer. “This it?”

“Yeah.” John stood up, shouldered the deer once more.

“I’ll show you have to skin it. We can use its skin to make more blankets for Nemeth.” Ronon turned and headed back toward the village, and John followed. “Next time,” Ronon said, “wait a bit, and it’ll lead you to its mother.”

Of course John had only managed to catch a baby deer.

Back at the village, Teyla and Rodney were roasting their own deer on a spit on a fire out front of their hut. It was easily three times the size of the one John had caught. A mother indeed.

John could feel the gazes of the other Toranians on him as he walked. He held Nemeth - who immediately started to cry - while Ronon gutted and skinned the deer, which John couldn’t watch.

In the hut, John found a bowl full of vivid blue, viscous liquid - the nectar. John cast about for a bottle or whatever Ronon had used to feed Nemeth, but there was nothing. John couldn’t just pour the contents down Nemeth’s throat - he’d choke. So he stuck a finger in the bowl, then held it out to Nemeth. Nemeth latched on immediately, his cries ceasing.

So John had to hand-feed the child. Awesome. He kept feeding Nemeth, but after about twenty minutes Nemeth started batting John’s hand away and crying once more.

John poked his head out of the hut. “I fed him and he stopped crying for a bit, but he really hates me.”

“Just hold him. He’ll cry himself out,” Ronon said.

“Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure kids don’t go hoarse like adults do.” But John tucked Nemeth against his shoulder and flinched at the kid wailing in his ear.

“Lorne says babies take a while to adjust to new people, but they need to learn to self-soothe.” Ronon had started a fire and was spitting the pitiful little deer for roasting. Gutted and cleaned, it was even smaller than before. It looked smaller than Ronon ate in one sitting on Atlantis.

This was, what, the third time Ronon had mentioned Lorne as a source of knowledge? John bounced Nemeth and patted his back. “Since when do you talk to Lorne so much?”

Ronon shrugged. “He knows all the good painting spots in the city.”

Right. Lorne was an artist in his spare time. Ronon had mentioned once that he used to paint. And write poetry, too. John had thought that was in the past. It was good, that Ronon had picked up old hobbies, right? It meant - something. That he’d really settled in.

“And you and Lorne talk about...kids?” John asked.

Ronon nodded. “Yeah. Lorne has kids.”

John raised his eyebrows. “ _Lorne?_ ”

“Yeah. Like, seven of them. Says it’s why he’s so good at organizing stuff. Takes a lot of organization to manage a family that big. Says his wife puts him to shame, with organizing.”

John tried and failed to imagine Lorne as a father. Then he realized something else. “Wait a second, if Lorne is so good with kids, how come he’s not doing this test?”

Again with a broad-shouldered shrug. “The Chief picked us. There, see? Nemeth’s crying himself out.”

It was true. Nemeth’s wails had subsided to sad little hiccups.

“Maybe it’s because you’re talking. The sound of your voice soothes him.”

“Lorne says as babies learn which adults meet their needs, they bond. Make sure you feed him and hold him. He’ll stop crying at you all the time.” Ronon turned the spit slowly.

John wasn’t so sure about that. As the silence Ronon had lapsed into drew on, Nemeth began to get fussy again, squirming and sobbing, and soon enough, he broke into a fresh wail.

Other Toranian families were roasting their own dinners out front of their houses. All of their kids were quiet and content. Even Rodney and Teyla’s Talith was content, though perhaps that was only because Rodney hadn’t noticed that she was drooling all over his shoulder.

John sniffed Nemeth, and sure enough, he needed a diaper change. “What does Major Lorne say about changing a diaper?”

“He says for boys you need a _pee-pee teepee_.” Ronon tested the phrase out, dubious as to its being an actual thing.

John was dubious too.

He figured out soon enough what Lorne meant. John laid the crying Nemeth on the ground, unswaddled him, and the smell hit him full force. Ronon said he’d watch Nemeth while John fetched more diaper cloth from the box in the hut. John found it quickly enough, returned hastily even though Nemeth’s cries had subsided while Ronon tickled his belly.

Whoever had tied on the diaper knew knots better than any sailor on Earth.

“Apparently I need an engineering degree to get this thing off,” John muttered.

Rodney looked up from a piece of roasted near-deer. “Did you say engineering?” he asked with his mouth full.

“Never mind,” John called, loud enough for him to hear. He thought about drawing his knife, but he knew he’d be unlikely to get more fabric for diapers, so he started picking at the knots.

Seemingly an eternity later, the last knot was undone. John hoped he could remember how to re-tie everything. Nemeth’s crying subsided, but he kicked his legs, fussing. John folded the new diaper as best as he could, then took off the old diaper.

Nemeth peed on him.

Rodney burst out laughing. Teyla burst out laughing. Even Ronon was laughing. And some Toranians were laughing to boot.

John was too disgusted and dispirited to get angry. Of course Nemeth had peed on him. “Little help, Ronon?”

“Lorne says if you don’t have a tee-pee, to use another diaper as a shield.” But Ronon took over changing the diaper while John shucked his soaked shirt.

He’d have to wash his shirt and undershirt now. Might as well wash the dirty diaper while he was at it. “That would have been nice to know before I got the diaper off.”

“I thought you knew what a tee-pee was,” Ronon said. But he wiped Nemeth clean, put on the clean diaper, and swaddled him up again.

“I thought I did too.” John sighed and walked away.

A Toranian woman gave him directions to the village well. So they’d have to fetch their own water every day.

True fact: John had grown up spoiled. He realized this as he lay on the barest edge of the mattress he’d cobbled together for him and Ronon out of the existing mattress they had plus John’s own bedroll from his gear.

After hauling water from the well, hand-washing dirty diapers and his dirty shirt, fetching more water, hand-washing the dishes, fetching yet more water, heating it over the fire, and then hand-washing Nemeth, John was exhausted. He’d never really appreciated all of the automated laundry and dishwashing systems on Atlantis, or the Marines who worked on the cleaning crew. He’d thought he’d learned to appreciate the servants he’d grown up with once he moved away to college and had to do his own laundry in the dorm laundry room and bus his own tray in the cafeteria.

He was wrong.

Ronon didn’t bat an eye at any of the menial chores. Had he grown up like this? He’d started hunting and tracking with his grandfather when he saw six. Was this what life had always been like for him, before Atlantis? Sateda had looked civilized enough, at least the parts of the city John had seen. Technologically in the 1940’s, except for the blaster weapons - that was what Rodney had said, right?

But maybe Ronon had grown up the equivalent of a farm boy.

At least John had already known how to dig a latrine.

Nemeth was asleep on the table. John and Ronon had arranged their packs and tac vests around him to prevent him from rolling off the table in the night - if he could even roll, all swaddled up as he was, as young as he was.

John peered at him through the shadows. Ronon was snoring softly, had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the mattress, soldier to the core.

Nemeth looked peaceful enough.

John fell asleep between one breath and the next, because he was exhausted.

And then Nemeth started to cry.

John jerked awake, heart pounding, terrified and confused. There was strange moment when Ronon rolled on top of him, and John knew Ronon was strong, was muscular, but he was also warm and perfectly firm and -

Ronon rolled off the mattress and onto his knees, scooped up Nemeth. He fetched the bowl of blue nectar and dipped a finger into it, held the nectar to Nemeth’s mouth. Hand-feeding the baby. Right.

John closed his eyes and let his head fall back, listened to Nemeth’s soft snuffles and Ronon’s gentle murmurs. He was just about back to sleep when he felt Ronon’s warmth, and then Nemeth’s snuffles were much louder and in John’s ear.

“What? Ronon, we can’t sleep with the baby on the bed. We’ll - we’ll squish him or something.”

“Lorne says Earth women co-sleep with their babies all the time. Unless you’re super drunk, if you roll onto the baby, it’ll kick you awake before you can hurt it.” Ronon curled a protective arm around Nemeth and fell back to sleep.

Dammit. No way could John sleep now, terrified that he’d accidentally smother their precious cargo. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to Ronon’s breathing and Nemeth’s breathing and wondering how the hell parents did this.

Granted, most parents had nine months to prepare for this thing. John had woken up that morning expecting business as usual, like firefights with space vampires. Not - foster-fatherhood.

Nemeth squirmed in his swaddling a bunch before John realized - he was gearing up for an epic wail-fest. John carefully moved Ronon’s arm aside, scooped up Nemeth, and scooted to the edge of the bed so he could reach the bowl of nectar. Nemeth’s eyes were only half-open as he drank nectar from John’s fingertip. Kid was basically feeding on autopilot.

John would be the first to admit that Ronon was the superior parent and better-equipped to handle this mission in general. It was vital that he got as much sleep as possible.

It might have been minutes or hours before John realized Nemeth had stopped feeding, had gone back to sleep. John set the bowl down and rearranged Nemeth back on the mattress between them, placed Ronon’s arm back over him.

And finally, he closed his eyes.

He stirred briefly when, again, he felt the delicious press of a firm, male body against his - hadn’t known that sensation since freshman year at Stanford, so damn good - and then he heard Ronon’s murmur and Nemeth’s snuffle, and he went back to sleep.

*

Nemeth was better than an alarm clock. He burst into hungry, wet-diaper wails as soon as the sun peeked above the horizon. John was confused and disoriented for a moment, but then he scooped Nemeth up, rocking him desperately.

“No, shh, let Ronon sleep.”

“Too late.” Ronon sat up, shook himself out. “Want me to change him, or get breakfast?”

John knew how to change Nemeth’s diaper - kind of - and he didn’t know how to fix breakfast in this place. “I got the diaper. You get the breakfast.”

Ronon nodded and stumbled out of the hut, leaving John to deal with Nemeth’s unhappy wails. John might have felt bad about disturbing the neighbors, only Nemeth wasn’t the only baby John could hear crying. He was pretty sure he could hear Talith and other babies besides.

This time John remembered, and he used one diaper as a shield when he finally peeled off Nemeth’s dirty one. He was pretty sure he managed the diaper change in less time than before. Then it was to the village well to fetch water for a quick run of laundry, and maybe also for use in making breakfast.

John strapped Nemeth into the baby sling, and then he drifted into the column of men and women making their way to the village well for their morning ration of water. While John shuffled along, rubbing Nemeth’s back with one hand and carrying the water pail with the other, he was on the receiving end of more than one sympathetic smile and yawn. Briefly he glimpsed Rodney in the mix, a yawning Rodney carrying a bucket but no Talith. Given that no one had lunged at John to snatch Nemeth from him and protect him, John figured he and Ronon were doing an all right job so far. Granted, it had been less than a full Toranian day, but John would take what he could get.

In a sense, caring for a baby was like being a military commander in the midst of a war. John started off the day - or the battle - with plans, but they quickly went awry, and all he could do was react, put out fires. John had plans to stockpile some food so they didn’t have to forage or hunt every meal, round up some more diapers, arrange some kind of laundry pail so he wasn’t doing laundry every time Nemeth needed a diaper change, but every time he tried to move forward with a plan, Nemeth threw a wrench into it. Nemeth needed fed. Nemeth needed burped. Nemeth needed a diaper change. Nemeth needed a nap.

Nemeth needed and needed and needed, and John and Ronon were constantly scrambling to meet his needs. _You take him. I got him. Need help with that? I got this. Hold him for a second so I can do this. You go do that._

If John hadn’t been aware of his privileged upbringing before, he was sure as hell aware of it now. Ronon didn’t mind having to forage or hunt for every meal, despite never having to do so on Atlantis. Obviously he’d had to do so as a Runner. Had he had to do that beforehand? John would have asked, but he didn’t have the energy.

At the end of the day, he sank down on the barely-there mattress and didn’t even protest when Ronon put Nemeth between them.

They took turns in the middle of the night feeding Nemeth and changing him, and both of them were exhausted in the morning.

“Food or baby?” Ronon asked, tucking Nemeth against his chest and rocking him.

“You’re better at both, but the baby’s more important.” John sighed. Despite Ronon’s repeated assurances (secondhand from Lorne), Nemeth cried incessantly whenever John held him or cared for him (unless feeding was happening), and he was only content when Ronon was holding him and talking to him or singing to him. “I’m a crappy hunter, but hunting’s a useful skill for the expedition. Baby-raising, not so much.”

“Except when it is,” Ronon said.

“Chances of us raising a kid again are extremely slim.” John handed Nemeth to Ronon, accepted Ronon’s blaster, and set off into the trees in search of yet another so-called Bambi, and an adult one this time.

When John returned with the kill, he poked his head into the hut to announce his success, only Ronon was sitting against the wall and cradling Nemeth close, singing to him. The expression on his face was terribly gentle, and wistful. Nemeth burbled happily, and John withdrew, not wanting to disturb him. He set about dressing the Bambi as best as he could. While he worked, other Toranian men and women nodded at him, smiled at him - probably grateful that Nemeth wasn’t raising a ruckus yet again.

John was just about finished when Ronon ducked out of the hunt, clutching a napping Nemeth.

“You got that?”

“Might not have remembered everything.” John gestured to the pile of innards in a bowl.

Ronon peered at it. “Yeah, let me finish it. Take Nemeth?”

“Let me wash my hands first.”

“Of course.”

At John’s voice, Nemeth began to stir, but Ronon bounced him gently, singing under his breath.

For about two seconds, Nemeth slept quietly in the baby sling, nestled against John’s chest,  and Ronon knelt to work on lunch and dinner, but then Nemeth burst into tears.

“I don’t get it,” John said. “What’s wrong with me?” He tried every trick he knew - bouncing, rocking, walking, singing, humming, crooning, just talking, but Nemeth didn’t care.

“Hold on,” Ronon said, and Nemeth took a moment to hiccup before setting to wailing once more.

People were starting to poke their heads out of their huts, looking at John askance. He smiled apologetically and kept trying to soothe Nemeth, to no avail.

Finally Ronon stood up, wiped his hands on a cloth, and reached for Nemeth. “Here, look, I’ll show you. He likes this song.” He cradled Nemeth close and began to sing.

It was an unfamiliar tune in a key John had never heard on Earth, but he pitched his voice with Ronon’s and tried to sing along anyway, butchering the words but managing the melody, and Nemeth began to settle.

Eventually Ronon faded off singing, but John kept up with the tune, humming when he didn’t know the words. Sure enough, Nemeth stayed asleep.

“We can eat while he naps,” Ronon said.

John nodded, still humming.

When it came to Nemeth, John mostly hovered just behind Ronon, feeling helpless and useless while Ronon changed Nemeth, held him, fed him, bathed him.

It was like that for days, and every day, John was running on a little less sleep and a little more stress, and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep doing this. After a while, not even Ronon’s song worked for John, and Nemeth was back to wailing miserably whenever John so much as breathed in his direction. John, Ronon, Teyla, and Rodney were supposed to check in with the Chief at the end of the first week, demonstrate their progress. John didn’t have high hopes for Team Ronon-and-John.

Rodney came by to tell them when their interview was while they were in the middle of juggling Nemeth back and forth so they could prepare their lunch.

“We’ll be there,” John assured him, then turned back to cutting and roasting the meat they’d hunted and the vegetables they’d gathered.

“Talith’s doing great. She loves me,” Rodney said before he departed.

Ordinarily John would have scoffed, but given his luck this past week,  he wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand.

Ronon was playing with Nemeth, having unswaddled the kid and laying him on his back, playing with his arms and legs. Ronon pressed his hands against the soles of Nemeth’s tiny feet, making encouraging sounds when Nemeth kicked against him.

John blinked. “Are you - are you making Nemeth _weight train?”_

Ronon looked amused at John’s alarm. “It’s play time and yes, also strength training. Lorne says we have to do _tummy time_ for about half an hour every day, too.”

Apparently in addition to running the Atlantis gossip mill and black market, Major Lorne was also a walking encyclopedia of child care and development.

“Nemeth’s probably old enough for us to stop swaddling him,” Ronon added.

John realized he didn’t know how old their charge was. He asked, sheepishly.

“Four months, give or take,” Ronon said. He tickled Nemeth’s little feet, and Nemeth giggled.

John kept cooking and watching. Ronon was genuinely fond of Nemeth. He let Nemeth tug on his fingers and push against his hands, and then he did indeed spread out Nemeth’s swaddling cloth on the floor and turn him onto his tummy so he could try to push himself up and roll himself over. They were in their own little world. John felt like he was outside looking in.

When the food was ready, John served up a plate for Ronon. He offered to hold Nemeth so Ronon could eat, take a break from the baby, but Ronon had apparently mastered the art of eating one-handed. John ate quickly, on his own, and then he went to fetch yet more water so they could wash the dishes.

When John returned with the pail, Ronon said, “Here, take a break, I got this.”

“No, you’ve been watching Nemeth, I can -”

“I should help. Hold him.” Ronon reached for the pail.

John held it out of reach. “He’ll just cry. I’ll do it.” And so he set to washing the dishes by hand in the cold water. He thought of the women he’d seen in small desert villages, the ones with hands rough and gnarled from a lifetime of labor, and he had the sense he knew how they’d gotten that way.

When he finished washing the dishes and stowing them back in the storage box, he turned to check on Ronon and Nemeth - and realized both of them had fallen asleep. No wonder they’d both been so quiet.

It was approximately Nemeth’s midday nap time.

John settled down on the mattress, back against the wall, careful to keep a safe distance between himself and Ronon so Nemeth didn’t get upset - and so he didn’t linger on thoughts of Ronon’s warm, firm body - and he closed his eyes.

He could just rest. For a little bit. Then they’d all wake up and go meet the Chief. Then they would -

John fell asleep.

He jerked awake when he sensed someone watching him. Glanced at his watch. Damn. They were late. They had to get moving -

The Chief stood in the doorway of the hut, looking at Ronon napping against the wall, Nemeth sprawled across his chest. Her smile was soft, fond, approving. And then she looked at John, and the warmth in her expression dimmed, and she looked - sad.

Damn. John’s total failure as a parent was going to cost Atlantis a very important trade agreement. He should let Lorne take his place. Between Ronon and Lorne, Nemeth would be a very happy baby. John opened his mouth to ask a question, but the Chief withdrew, and John was left feeling hollow.

Nemeth would wake from his nap in need of a diaper change, so John set about hunting for diaper change supplies - clean diaper, cleaning cloth, pail for more laundry. He’d just about laid out everything when Nemeth came awake with a wail.

Ronon started, immediately alert, and wrinkled his nose. “Yep. Diaper change.”

John shuffled aside without question, let Ronon lay Nemeth on the table and change the diaper. Ronon’s hands on Nemeth were sure and gentle, even though he was obviously very offended by the smell.

“Did you have younger siblings? On Sateda.”

“No. It was just me and Grandpa.”

Ronon never spoke of his parents, or even of his grandmother.

“Did you and your almost-wife have kids?”

Ronon snorted. “No. She wasn’t my wife yet.”

Well, John hadn’t expected that level of prudishness from a man who was still borderline feral in so many ways. Granted, John had no idea if Ronon had always been like that, or if his time as a Runner had permanently scarred him in ways no one would ever understand.

“What about you and Nancy?” Ronon asked. “Any kids?”

“No. I don’t think she really wanted them.”

“Did you want them?”

John had. He’d desperately wanted a child - boy or girl, didn’t matter, both could be taught to throw a football and play guitar and ride a skateboard and love Ferris wheels - but Nancy hadn’t. It had been but one crack in the already fragile armor of their marriage. “It’s pretty obvious I’d be a terrible parent.”

“With the right partner, you’d do fine.” Ronon glanced at job. “You’re afraid of him. He can sense it.”

“I’m not afraid of him. I’m just tired of being screamed at.”

Ronon finished changing Nemeth’s diaper and held him out to John. “Take him. Look him in the eye. Talk to him. Don’t just make noise and hope he goes quiet. He’s a person.”

Nemeth took one look at John, and his face scrunched up. He opened his mouth to wail.

John sighed, accepted Nemeth, and held him up so they were eye-to-eye. Nemeth began to cry.

“Hey,” he said, “I get that Ronon’s more fun than me. He’s younger, less tired, and when you get bigger, you can climb all over him, and I’m smaller and much less climb-able. But I’m also here taking care of you, okay? Ronon can teach you to hunt and cook. I can teach you to fly a plane - or a jumper one day. If you have the Gene. What do you say, little buddy? Will you stop screaming in my ear every time I touch you?”

Nemeth’s wails subsided to little hiccuping sobs, but he was gazing into John’s eyes, and John was shocked at the _knowing_ in those big dark eyes. And then Nemeth blinked at him and _smiled_.

John remembered the early days with Torren, how Teyla and Kanaan (and now that he thought about it, Ronon and Lorne) had been awed by everything Torren did - every smile and babble and laugh, the first time he rolled over and the first time he crawled and the first time he walked. John hadn’t understood it himself, but Nemeth was smiling _at him_ , and something in John unfurled.

“There, buddy. That’s more like it.” John bounced him a little bit.

Ronon clapped him on the shoulder. “You got this. Take him for a walk. Talk to him. I’ll do the laundry. And catch dinner.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. You’ve got the next diaper change and feeding anyway.”

John nodded. “Okay. And Ronon - thanks.”

The look Ronon cast him was inscrutable. “You’re welcome.” He scooped up the pail and headed for the well - how did he even know where it was? John always fetched the water.

John arranged the baby sling and tucked Nemeth into it, and he went for a walk around the perimeter of the village, far enough that he could pretend he was alone. And while he walked, he talked to Nemeth. Looked him in the eye, paused for a physical response if not a verbal one. John talked to Nemeth about everything and nothing - how he’d wanted a kid with Nancy and Nancy hadn’t agreed, had unilaterally decided they would never have children (and how much that had hurt, to come home from an awful mission and learn that they could have had a child but Nancy said no, and he knew, he _knew_ that was her right because it was her body but she hadn’t even talked to him or - no, no use dwelling on that). Nemeth gazed at him solemnly, and when John leaned down, nuzzled Nemeth, Nemeth burbled back at him.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have been a completely awful father,” John said. “I’m doing okay with you, aren’t I? Ronon would be a great father. He’s amazing with you - and not just because he apparently talks to Lorne a whole lot more than I ever realized.”

And didn’t _that_ make something else twist in John’s chest.

“I don’t know if I’m even ever going to see you again, after this.” John smoothed a hand over Nemeth’s thick, soft, dark hair. “But if I did - I’d totally teach you how to play guitar. And I’d let you watch Star Wars, so you understood when I call Ronon _Chewie_. I’d have Rodney build you a Ferris wheel on the Western pier so you could understand how it felt to be on top of the world. To fly. To look down and see the sky.”

Nemeth smiled at him.

“That was how I knew I wanted to be a pilot,” John added. “The first time I stopped at the top of a Ferris wheel and could see the world.”

He told Nemeth about Stanford, and the first Johnny Cash song he ever learned to sing, and the first he ever learned to play on the guitar (“It’s truth, little Nemeth, that there is literally a Johnny Cash song for every occasion, if you look hard enough”).

He told Nemeth about his younger brother, and his parents, and how their divorce when John was thirteen was the beginning of the end, and how his mother’s death when he was sixteen was the worst, because John would never, ever forgive himself for choosing to stay with his father instead of going to his mother. Now that he was older, he knew he hadn’t really had a say when he was thirteen, but that didn’t matter.

“That’s the trick of regret,” John said. “It’s magic. It cuts through reason and logic and experience. It sticks with you, no matter what. Like your shadow.”

John confessed to Nemeth, softly, that he found Ronon attractive, that one of the reasons he’d been afraid to ask to live with his mother was that people would find out the truth, that sometimes he liked boys the way his mother sometimes liked girls.

And if the Air Force ever found out he sometimes liked men, he’d never get to fly again.

“I’d never get to see you again, either.”

Nemeth’s expression crumpled, and for one second John thought he’d angsted too much at the kid, but then all Nemeth did was squirm and fuss, and John realized - Nemeth was hungry.

He glanced at his watch. Had it been that long? It didn’t feel like it had been that long. Had he been walking that entire time?

John glanced up, studied the landscape, and he knew that the village was to his left. He executed a sharp quarter turn, like he was on the parade ground, and then headed straight.

“Don’t worry, buddy.” He patted Nemeth’s back. “I’ll get you some food.”

When he got back to their hut, Ronon was leaning in the doorway, watching their approach.

“You were gone a long time,” Ronon said.

“Sorry. This guy’s a better conversationalist than I knew.” John headed inside for the bowl of nectar. “Want to feed him?”

“If you like.”

“I’ve probably hogged him enough.” John transferred Nemeth into Ronon’s arms, then brought the bowl of nectar to him.

They both sat on the ground in the shade of the hut, John balancing the bowl on his knee while Ronon fed Nemeth from it.

“Thank you, by the way,” John said quietly.

“For what?” Ronon glanced at him, kept feeding Nemeth.

“For teaching me how to talk to Nemeth.”

“No big deal. You teach me all the time.”

John snorted. “Since when?”

“Since I came to Atlantis. You reminded me that people are - real.”

“What does that mean?”

Ronon shrugged. “When I was a Runner, people were distant. Risks. Collateral damage. Hostages. Wraith pawns. In another world. Look, don’t touch. When I stopped being a Runner, I was still outside. But you - you showed me Star Wars and football and golf. You called me _Chewie_. And now I’m inside.”

“You’re welcome, I think.”

Ronon looked amused. “Thanks.”

John squinted at him. “We just did that backward, didn’t we?”

“Maybe. Who cares?” But Ronon laughed, all the same.

*

Over the next few days, John figured out what Ronon had meant.

 _And now I’m inside_.

Because John was inside, too - he was inside Ronon and Nemeth’s little world. Now that Nemeth was okay with John, it was easier for John and Ronon to do things together. Instead of one of them going foraging for food and the other caring for Nemeth, they could hand him off as necessary to accomplish their tasks together.

They took him foraging and even on a simple hunt. Both of them narrated to him, making smart commentary at each other, and when they laughed, he laughed too.

John was part of their games and play time as well, cheering Nemeth on through tummy time and pressing his palms against the soles of Nemeth’s feet, encouraging Nemeth to kick back against him, resist. They fell into an easy routine, taking turns to feed and change and hold Nemeth, cooking and washing up and hunting and gathering.

At night, they placed Nemeth between them, and they sang him lullabies - Satedan songs, Johnny Cash songs - and then they fell asleep.

John woke one morning before Nemeth, which was strange. Somehow, in the middle of the night, John and Ronon had drifted closer together, were pressed together from shoulder to hip to knee, with Nemeth asleep on the both of them, on his back with his head on Ronon’s chest and his little feet pressing against John’s arm.

John felt warm and comfortable and _safe_ in a way he hadn’t felt since - since before things went wrong with Nancy. He felt like he was _home_ , like he was with his _family_ in a way not even his entire team made him feel.

And then he realized - this was it. The last day. The end of the second week. His little family was over. Today they were going back to Atlantis.

John carefully arranged Nemeth so he was on the mattress beside Ronon, and John rolled onto his side, gazed down at Nemeth. His little chest rose and fell with his soft breaths. Nemeth was a beautiful child, with the same copper skin as the rest of the Toranians. He had wide eyes and a bright smile and a cute little button nose. John had seen uglier kids as models. Nemeth was - perfect. Ten fingers and toes, soft skin, perfect trust in his eyes when John held him.

In sleep, Ronon looked - younger. Peaceful in a way John hadn’t thought Ronon could ever be, fierce warrior that he was.

Ronon was truly beautiful too - his bright dark eyes, his wicked smile, his deadpan sense of humor.

Nemeth and Ronon were beautiful and perfect, and John couldn’t have either of them.

He heaved himself onto his feet and stumbled out of the hut and into the sunrise.

John Sheppard had been blessed with many things - a privileged upbringing, good looks, better than average intelligence, the opportunity to do the thing he’d always wanted (fly) and so much more (Atlantis). But one thing the universe would never give him was a family. Not his parents and brother, not Nancy and a child, not Nemeth, not Ronon or anyone like him.

These two weeks hadn’t been about family, they’d been about the job. The mission. Secure a much-needed trade agreement for Atlantis.

Well, Nemeth was a very happy baby. Mission accomplished. Time to go home.

The joy on Nemeth’s real parents’ faces when they received him back into their arms made John just _hurt_. But he wore his uniform proudly and stood tall and exchanged ritual greetings with the Chief, and then it was back to the gate.

Once in Atlantis, after they’d made it through their med checks, John dismissed his entire team; he’d handle the debrief himself. He knew he was out of sorts, was being stupid, was unintentionally taking it out on his team. He’d avoided Ronon - and Nemeth - all morning, and now that he was back on Atlantis, he needed time alone. To sort himself out. To familiarize himself with the inner workings of the city’s military command once more (which meant spending a lot of time with Lorne, and how had he not known Lorne was a father? Because Lorne talked about his kids _all the time_ ). To remember how to be _outside_ of a family - and Ronon.

Teyla was grateful to get back to Torren, who Kanaan had had charge of the entire time she was gone. Rodney was grateful to skip the debrief, get back to the lab, because in case anyone had forgotten, he _hated children_ (except Torren and his own niece, of course, because there were exceptions to every rule).

If John was out of sorts, Ronon was worse. The Marines were increasingly reporting that Ronon was terrifying in training, just as laconic and dangerous as when he’d first come to Atlantis. Whenever John went to try to talk to Ronon, Ronon was running or lifting weights or somewhere else in the city.

Sometimes, John woke in the middle of the night because he thought he’d heard a baby cry.

The insanity went on for two weeks before John was ready to have an intervention with Ronon (Lorne commenting on how Ronon seemed out of sorts was the straw that broke the camel’s back). John had just cornered Rodney and Teyla when Chuck announced over the radio, _Unscheduled offworld activation!_

The entirety of AR-1 assembled in Control.

“It’s the Toranian IDC,” Chuck said to Woolsey, who had already been there when John and his team arrived.

“Let them through,” Woolsey said.

John craned his neck to peer into the gate room.

Three dark-robed Toranians stepped out of the shimmering blue pool of the event horizon, and then John heard it. A baby’s cry.

Nemeth. John knew that cry. Not hunger or thirst or a wet diaper. It was unhappiness.

Ronon was down in the gate room before anyone could blink, taking Nemeth from one of the Toranians and cradling him close, humming Nemeth’s favorite song.

John scrambled to follow, peering over Ronon’s shoulder at Nemeth, who looked pale and tired and very unhappy.

“Hey, buddy,” John murmured. “Remember me?”

Nemeth’s cries subsided to soft hiccups, but his face was wet with tears and he looked miserable. He must have been crying for a long time.

Woolsey approached the Toranians, who drew back their hoods - the Chief and a couple of women John vaguely remembered from the village.

“Chief Elmeth, what is going on?”

“Nemeth’s parents died of a terrible fever,” the Chief said.

“Do you need medical assistance?” Woolsey’s hand twitched to his radio. “I can get Dr. Biro, our epidemiologist, on standby.”

“Nemeth needs parents,” the Chief said. “By tradition, Colonel Sheppard and Ronon Dex are Nemeth’s new parents.”

Woolsey spluttered. “Just one moment, this is a science and military expedition, not an orphanage -”

“I’ll do it,” Ronon said.

Woolsey stared at him.

The Chief smiled.

The rest of the Marines in the gate room stared at him. Everyone stared at him. John stared at him.

The Chief said, “But you must _both_ be his parents.”

Ronon cast John a look he couldn’t read, and John had the sense that once again, he was on the outside, looking in at Ronon and Nemeth’s world.

This was the first time in two weeks that Ronon had actually _looked_ at John.

For John, there was only one answer. “I’ll do it.”

Everyone who’d stared at Ronon turned to stare at John.

“This is highly irregular,” Woolsey began.

Major Lorne said, “I can have one of the JAG officers implement the Fraiser Protocol immediately, sir.”

Woolsey blinked. “Fraiser Protocol?”

“Named for Dr. Janet Fraiser, former Chief Medical Officer at Stargate Command, when she adopted an offworld orphan,” Lorne said promptly.

The Chief reached out, placed one hand on John’s arm, the other on Ronon’s. “Raise him well,” she said. To Woolsey, she said, “And now, we must depart.”

Woolsey was still reeling, and Lorne was speaking into his radio, summoning one of the JAG officers. John told Chuck to dial up the gate, so the Toranians could depart.

Teyla said, “I have some of Torren’s baby things. They are free for your use.”

“Thanks,” John said. “Major Lorne, could you -”

“I’ve dispatched Marines to set up another set of family quarters and retrieve Torren’s baby gear from storage,” Lorne said. Before John could thank him, Lorne was back on his radio, having an intense discussion with Dr. Kusanagi, who was apparently the Head Stitch Bitch in Charge, and there was a pan of green tea mochi in it for her if she and her cohorts could provide some more baby gear, preferably in Satedan colors.

Lorne’s efficiency would never not be disturbing.

“Come on,” John said to Ronon. “Let’s - take Nemeth to get some fresh air. The balconies would be nice.”

Ronon nodded.

“I’ll have someone bring a bottle by,” Lorne said as they passed him.

John and Ronon headed for the nearest balcony, and they began to walk, slowly. Nemeth had fallen asleep in Ronon’s arms, and both men were loathe to disturb him.

“Did you mean it?” Ronon asked.

“Mean what?” John asked.

“That you’ll - with Nemeth. And me.”

“Yes,” John said.

Ronon studied John for a long time. “Why?”

“Because,” John said, “with you and Nemeth, I’m inside.”

Ronon said nothing for a long moment, gazing down at Nemeth as he walked. “Then we’ll do this together?”

“Of course.”

“Not just Team John and Ronon,” he said. “ _Together_.”

John came up short at the intensity in Ronon’s gaze. And then he remembered, how Ronon had been so dismissive of the notion of him and Milena having children, because they hadn’t actually been married. He swallowed hard. “Ronon, you know the Air Force’s rules. I - I can’t marry you. I’m not even allowed to _like_ you.”

“But you do like me.”

John sighed. “I do.”

“Then we are a family,” Ronon said. “You, me, and Nemeth.”

“Yes.”

Ronon shifted Nemeth in his arms, leaned in, and kissed John.

John closed his eyes and shivered from his head to his toes, because it had been _so long_ , but Ronon’s lips were warm and his beard was soft and -

“Formula will have to do for now, sir, but I talked to Dr. Parrish, and he says the botanists can grow some of the nectar flowers that Nemeth prefers.”

John yanked himself backward, horrified, but Major Lorne looked completely unruffled, holding a bottle.

“Major,” John began, but Lorne held out his arms to Ronon.

“May I?”

“If he doesn’t cry at you like he cried at John for a week,” Ronon said, and he held Nemeth out.

Lorne accepted Nemeth with the kind of ease that John had envied in Ronon at the beginning of that two-week trade mission, cradled Nemeth against his chest and offered him the bottle.

“Come on, little guy,” Lorne crooned. “I know, it’s not the blue stuff you like, but I promise it’s tasty, and blue stuff is on its way, all right?”

After some hesitation, Nemeth began sucking enthusiastically on the bottle, and Lorne smiled. “There you go, little guy. You’re gonna love it on Atlantis. I’m your Uncle Evan, and I’ll make sure your daddies take good care of you, okay?” He flicked a glance at John and Ronon.

 _Daddies_. It was a subtle message - Lorne knew exactly what was going on between them, and he would protect them and Nemeth.

“I’ll have my Marines move your belongings from your quarters to the new family quarters,” Lorne said. He stroked Nemeth’s cheek. “He’s gonna be a real lady-killer when he gets older. Invest in a shotgun, sir. A man’s best friend, once his kids reach dating age.”

“I’ll remember that, Major,” John said, feeling faint and a little dizzy.

Ronon’s hand on his elbow grounded him. “Thanks, Lorne. We got this from here.”

Lorne nodded and held Nemeth out to John, bottle and all.

John accepted Nemeth and the bottle, held him close. Nemeth smiled up at him.

Lorne turned away, tapping his radio. “Captain Reed, mobilize Weapons Company. We have furniture to move.” He strode away, issuing orders to have Ronon and John’s lives rearranged around their new child.

As soon as he was out of earshot, John sucked in a shaky breath. “We have to be careful, Ronon. We -”

Ronon leaned in and kissed him again, deep and passionate, and when he pulled back, John was breathless. “I know. Like I told Lorne, we got this.”

John nodded. “You’re right. We’ve got this.”

**Author's Note:**

> So much thanks to the wonderful Brumeier, who helped beta this fic and get it past the finish line, and to wings_128 for running this thing-a-thon.


End file.
